Immeasurable
by Bagting Hangin
Summary: Sherlock's Byronian good looks had always earned him admiration from many. Mycroft only ever got deference and awe, an insignificant side effect of the power he worked so hard to accumulate to wield for the common good. This goddess of a woman telling him she loved him — it was a lot to take in, even when he could easily deduce the veracity of her words.


a/n: Oh, look. I have another ship. Great. LOL.

For miz-joely, who showed me this shiny little ship and now I don't wanna get off. I hate you. Haha.

o-o-o

It was times like this lovely Saturday morning that convinced Mycroft Holmes that his Anthea was part cat. She had wrapped herself around him, every single inch of her smooth skin touching his where they weren't separated by the infinitisemal breadth of Mycroft's one-thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. She was also nuzzling his face with her own and planting kisses all over every part of his cheek she could reach without moving her head. At one time she'd even licked the inside of his ear before nibbling on it teasingly. That had resulted in them being in their current state of undress, Mycroft recalled happily.

"You think too loudly, but I like where your mind is taking you," Anthea whispered.

Mycroft closed his eyes and placed his hand on the dip of his lover's waist before pulling their bodies flush together. "I'm no idiot. I know how fortunate I am to be here with you," he added sedately.

Anthea huffed and pulled away from him, showing him her back and pulling the sheet away from him to cover herself. "This isn't sixth form, you aren't the outcast, and I am not the popular girl anymore, Mycroft!"

Mycroft edged closer to Anthea and curled his body around hers. "I know. I'm sorry," he offered, his hand reaching for hers.

Anthea brought their joined hands to her lips and kissed Mycroft's fingers. "I don't know why you are still insecure about your looks after all these years. You've lost your baby fat a long time ago and even when you had it, I thought - I still think - you are the best-looking guy in the world. I have followed you _everywhere_, even when I had to push myself beyond my ordinary abilities to assist you. Even now you let a small thing like my BEAUTY get in between us. My face and body are an accident of genetics. That's all this shell is!" she sobbed, her tears falling on Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft kissed Anthea's nape and buried his nose in her fragrant hair. "I'm sorry. I just feel like I'm not worthy-"

Anthea turned around and wriggled closer to him, her eyes sad as she lovingly looked at him, her expression soft, her hands as gentle as only he'd ever felt them. "Do you know why I love you, Mycroft? Do you know why I have always loved you? Why it's only ever been you?"

Mycroft touched his forehead with hers. "I must confess that has always been a conundrum for me, fortunate as I deem myself that you think me worthy of your time."

Anthea cupped his cheek and kissed his nose. "You love so deeply that the very few who have your affection live in your love as if it were the atmosphere. We are in it, we move in it, we breathe it. Your heart is immeasurable, Mycroft."

Mycroft lowered his eyes but Anthea tilted his chin, forcing him to look at her. She then nosed her way into the space between Mycroft's cheek and the mattress before softly kissing his ear. "You call your mother Mummy because you and Sherlock have always been independent. With one word you made sure Violet never felt like the Holmes nest was empty. One word. You even got Sherlock to call her that, and everyone knows how hard it is to get him to do anything,"

Mycroft's eyes flew open. _Did I do that?_

Anthea's hand slowly slid up his arm to rest on his shoulder, squeezing the sinewy muscle there. "Siger, your father... he has never been and never will be as brilliant as you, Sherlock and your mother, but you always treat him with deference and respect because you care about his feelings, even as you deny having your own,"

Mycroft looked into his lover's eyes and saw adoration therein and it brought tears to his own. Sherlock's Byronian good looks had always earned him admiration from many. Mycroft only ever got deference and awe, an insignificant side effect of the power he worked so hard to accumulate to wield for the common good. This goddess of a woman telling him she loved him - it was a lot to take in, even when he could easily deduce the veracity of her words. Anthea was Sherlock's age and he had been so in love with her. Sherlock may have deleted that from his memory, but Mycroft still knew where the sibling rivalry started, because every night she lies in his arms. His treasure, his Anthea. The price had been Sherlock's adulation. She was worth it though. She really, really was.

A gentle kiss on his lips brought him back to the present. "You tolerate Sherlock's antics like a parent instead of a sibling. You've had parenting practice for three decades so I just know that our child would be lucky to have you for a father,"

Mycroft's eyes widened and his grip around her tightened. "Our child? You mean..."

Anthea nodded. "In 8 months, I will have something to show for my love, Mycroft. Will you still doubt yourself and my love for you then?"

Mycroft pressed his lips on hers. "Oh, Anthea. You can tell me the sun will rise in the west and I'll believe."


End file.
